


Weakness

by Glassdyr



Category: The Transformers (Cartoon Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Character Study, Cuddling, Fluff, Touch-Starved, but not excessively fluffy, one-sided Starscream/Soundwave
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-29
Updated: 2018-10-29
Packaged: 2019-08-09 10:18:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16447988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glassdyr/pseuds/Glassdyr
Summary: It's lonely at the top, but Soundwave prefers it that way.





	Weakness

During a rare moment of respite, Soundwave pushed aside the stack of statistical datapads covering his desk and pulled out a different one, from a drawer he rarely opened: this one containing a collection of short stories.

It had been a long time since Soundwave had read literature, and he stared at the title page with a small sense of disbelief. Soundwave had been immensely pleased when the space bridges to Cybertron actually worked; he thought it would be millennia before he would read anything in his own language except statistics and casualty logs. It only took a little badgering to get Shockwave to covertly send one of Soundwave’s favourite literature datapads to Earth.

Soundwave glanced at the author’s name and realised that he was more than likely dead by now. After all, the war was not kind to the writers who couldn’t turn their lexical skills from prose to power plays. Soundwave thanked some cosmic fate that the author’s words managed to live on in the datapad as he turned the page.

Soundwave flicked his optics over the first few sentences and almost sighed aloud in relief. It wasn’t just the stories Soundwave had forgotten, but also the style the text was written in: sentences that flowed together to describe and evoke not only pictures but overarching themes and ideas that stitched together a tale. This was so far removed from the bullet-point, truncated half-sentences of the data analyses he churned out on a daily basis. Soundwave was not emotional in the least – even while reading fiction at his leisure, he was as straight-backed and solemn as if scanning a subordinate’s poor-quality report – but even he couldn’t deny that a deep calmness had settled over him.

The communications officer resumed reading, and he could feel the subtle tension in his wires slackening ever so slightly. It had been a long time since he’d done something for himself.

The opening tale of the collection (Soundwave never started from anywhere except page 1) told the bittersweet, lonely story of a desert nomad, the last of his kind after a great plague; a great dying. The hermit-like nomad at first surrounded himself in the silence of the dead world like a blanket, finding himself at peace; but soon the sheer quiet unnerved him as he realised he was completely alone, marooned as if on a desert island. The loneliness ate at him as his reasons for endless travel became not to find food, but with the sputtering hope that he’d find someone else. The nomad fought battles and nursed his gashes and bruises by himself. He foraged for the few edible desert plants and clean water alone. He slept on bare sand, his makeshift bed untouched by the warmth of another. The story ends quietly, thoughtfully, on an image of the nomad and his only friend, Loneliness personified, watching the sunset drip below the horizon of a silent arid world.

Soundwave paused on the last page, digit poised to flip to the next story, but he lowered his servo and reread the closing paragraph. The telepath vaguely remembered this story and how much he resonated with the main character when he first read it; even though the protagonist was mute, his character spoke strongly through his actions and thoughts. The last time Soundwave read this was just after he joined the Decepticon cause, but yet he still felt the same immense kinship with the desert nomad. Had he really changed that little over several millennia?

The mech thought for a moment, and he supposed that no, he really hadn’t. Outwardly, yes: he now had a small army of symbiotes, he was a high-ranking officer instead of an underling, and almost every soldier in Megatron’s army feared or loathed him. But inside? Not really.

His definition of empathy was still not so sympathetic and more along the lines of forced mind-reading. He would still defend himself and his position in Megatron’s army to his last drop of fuel, fighting dirty with bared claws and mind rape if he had to. He still had the same respect for Megatron and, in a way, Starscream that he had when he first met the two. He’d always been in charge of communications, although his responsibilities had gradually extended to include almost all data that ended up with Megatron.

And, he was still as alone as when he first met Megatron.

Soundwave was a mech of few words. Before he clawed his way up the ranks of the Decepticons, he was barely noticed, with his unique build and telepathy catching only the optics of a few. His stony, solid wall of a personality turned off even those that managed to develop an interest in him. In a way, it was for the best; the best of friends make the best of enemies. Especially among Decepticons, soft spots for anyone are weaknesses to be exploited. He was sure it was the same among the Autobots, even with their holier-than-thou morals.

With a small half-chuckle at the irony, Soundwave recalled that even Prime wasn’t so noble: it was by Prime’s actions that Cybertron was delivered to Earth’s orbit, dooming the organic planet. Of course, the Autobots managed to save Earth as they always did, but it was undeniable that it was their great leader who pressed the button to connect the space bridge. In the end, Prime’s loyalties lied solely with Cybertron, not Earth, and he would doom billions of organics to bring his civil war closer to him.

Even if Prime pretended to be above dirty warfare, Soundwave was different. The communications officer couldn’t care less what happened to anyone who crossed his path. The other Decepticons were right to fear him. He and his cassettes were the all-seeing optics of the Nemesis, and Soundwave kept notes on anything and everything. Small groups that met together frequently in the mess hall were noted. Anyone who set foot in the officer’s section of the ship was immediately questioned by him. Even the smallest of messages passed covertly in meetings caught Soundwave’s attention. What was more, though, was that Soundwave could dig his telepathic digits into the minds of other mechs to see where their true loyalties lied and where their emotions swung at any moment. He didn’t have to interrogate often as treason was so rare (not counting Starscream being a brat), but when he did, he took it slowly and pretended to genuinely enjoy it. His reputation was built not just on the backs of everything he’d done for Megatron, but also the shoulders of rumours whispered in the mess hall: how easily he could decipher fear and anger to see the undercurrents of what lay beneath. No memories were safe, whether it was a soldier’s first dead friend, first interfacing, or the burning of their home city. The more uncomfortable he made his victims, the better. They ran off to tell horror stories to their friends about the sick, manipulative officer who wrought their darkest secrets easily from them as if plucking overripe fruit from an Earth tree. He actually didn’t care much for interrogation – the whining and repeated inquiries to _stop, stop, get out of there Soundwave please_ got old fast – but the less likely he was to be targeted, the less he had to worry about.

The only drawback to all of this was how alone he was. Soundwave had no right to complain, though, as his dead social life was entirely his own doing. But, on occasion he’d pass by a room where he could hear the soft muffled gasps and metallic whines of interfacing and wonder what that was like, to trust someone so much to just let them have you, all of you. The thought of giving anyone on this base even the slightest modicum of trust made Soundwave balk, but nonetheless, he kept coming back to this thought.

His inability to stop considering trust stemmed in part from how sensitive he was to touch. Soundwave was very sensitive to physical contact, and it had only been getting worse over the past few vorns. He found himself craving it more and more, and the accidental brushes of a wing or servo of someone passing by him were almost enough to get his processor to stall. The telepath did an excellent job of hiding these impulses, but there were times when his touch starvation bubbled up dangerously close to the surface. For example, if Megatron casually placed a servo on Soundwave’s shoulder as he leaned over to look closer at the screen Soundwave was working at, he wondered if Megatron could feel the way the metal of his shoulder seemed to warm and glow at the most basic of touch. When Starscream would get up in his faceplate and berate him to get his stupid cassette brats under control, much of Soundwave’s focus was on not Starscream himself but their close proximity, how easy it would be to inch forward just a bit and rest his forehead on Starscream’s.

It had nothing to do with neither Starscream nor Megatron themselves, he was sure. This wasn’t love or a desire to bond; there was no room for things like that in this war or even within Soundwave himself. Rather, this sensitivity was a weakness that, in time, would shrivel up and die after another few dekavorns. He would just have to wait it out until he could stop worrying about anyone picking up on it.

He sighed as he thought about what would happen if the command trine got wind of this, the scheming, nefarious scrapheaps. Thundercracker would be easy to threaten and blackmail to keep his mouth shut, but Skywarp and Starscream would need force, especially the accursed air commander. Soundwave was sure those two would have fun with this before he managed to beat it out of them: little brushes of their wings, straying servos, stupid little “accidents” that would make Soundwave’s fans kick on to cool him off in an embarrassing overreaction.

Soundwave rolled his optics at the thought of Starscream. Recently, he’d been fond of grabbing Soundwave roughly by the shoulders during heated arguments, his voice dipping lower into a throaty, strangely provocative hiss right in his audial receptors. And these heated arguments, as always, were frequent between the two officers, even if Soundwave shoved Starscream off and cut their argument immediately. He knew Starscream was flirting with him – it was obvious, from the brightness of his optics when he glared at Soundwave to the way his wings spread wider when they met; and, of course, the frequent cocky smiles he shot Soundwave’s way, sharp denta flashing. But it wasn’t out of genuine interest, of course. Starscream was a crusader who slept around with little thought and toyed with those who thought they had a chance at something more. Soundwave shunned the idea of keeping tabs on Starscream’s conquests, but Soundwave was confident that he was the last one on the Nemesis who hadn’t interfaced with Starscream. The air commander was just looking to tick off the last box on his list, Soundwave was sure.

Almost guiltily, though, Soundwave thought about what would happen if he did give in to Starscream, reciprocated just a little bit. It was tempting. He didn’t even have to go all the way; just enough to sate his need for physical contact. He never allowed himself to consider this before, but this touch starvation was becoming so persistent that he allowed himself just this moment to think about it.

But that _voice._ It would be a pain in the aft to listen to him talk for any longer than absolutely necessary, and he knew Starscream would crow proudly afterwards about getting Soundwave in the berth. He could hear it now: _even someone like_ Soundwave _couldn’t resist!_ It wouldn’t be anything to endanger his standing among the Decepticons, but the air commander’s screechy boasts and guaranteed dismissal of Soundwave like a spent toy wasn’t something he wanted to deal with.

Maybe he could find a subordinate for the night, low enough in the ranks to be nervous around him. They would be too scared to brag about it, and probably too scared to deny him once they realised his intentions. They probably would even see it as a chance to gain Soundwave’s good graces. It wouldn’t be that difficult: a glance just a second too long, a few vague yet heavy words –

Soundwave cut off the rapidly spiraling train of thought with a sudden, forceful exhale. There was no way he was going to let himself do any of that. The risk would be far too great for just a chance at physical contact. He’d spent millennia building up a reputation as an unfeeling lieutenant loyal only to Megatron. It would completely shatter that reputation if even one low-ranking ground unit squealed about how Soundwave fragged them and bothered to stay the night. Decepticons were built on closed-off emotions and rough edges; he’d offline himself before he’d risk everything just to indulge in a weak spot.

This need would disappear over time, he was sure. Soundwave put down the datapad in front of him and rested his faceplate in both servos. It was lonely at the top, of course, but he preferred it that way. In fact, any mech would kill for Soundwave’s position: alone as a high-ranking officer, side-by-side with Megatron with no risk of backstabbing, any potential assassins too afraid of his sheer strength and vast personal knowledge of each Decepticon to try their shot. Many of Soundwave’s weaknesses just like this had been killed off, and he could do it again. He treated it like euthanising a mechahorse with a broken leg: it was useless, and he offlined these aspects of himself quickly and painlessly. The destruction of these internal weaknesses, no matter how painful, would be worth it in the end, when the Decepticons triumphed over the Autobots. He’d walk into that new world with only Megatron his superior, safer at the top than at the bottom of the barrel in Megatron’s dream of a dog-eat-dog Cybertron: cruel, but exactly how it should be.

Soundwave’s stream of thought was interrupted by a stirring in his chest. He opened his cassette deck and Ravage ejected herself, transforming in mid-air and landing gracefully. She circled around to Soundwave’s chair and rested her head on his thigh, peering up at him with crimson, vividly alive optics. As always, she studied him like she watched an opponent before an attack or as she scouted places to hide in the shadows; but whenever her gaze focused on Soundwave, he could feel the affinity and trust through their mental bond. She must have felt his heavy pondering through their link and ejected herself out of curiosity.

Quietly apologising for shaking her from recharge, Soundwave reached down and scratched gently behind her ears, easily seeking out all the spots she loved to be petted: the corner of her jaw, under her chin, the base of her ears and the nape of her neck. Gently, Ravage began to purr, a muffled noise throatier and huskier than a housecat’s but still strangely organic. Her optics shuttered as she leaned into Soundwave’s touch, unabashedly enjoying it in the privacy of Soundwave’s quarters.

As the telepath edged his finger under her chin to lift her head and better scratch her there (Ravage happily obliged), he wondered if this constituted as a weakness: his love for his symbiotes. Ravage didn’t seem to mind these brief moments of calm despite her harsh demeanour and roiling anger; she enjoyed this, these moments of dropping heavy armour and soaking in affection, as long as it was behind closed doors.

Suddenly, Ravage shook her head, warding off Soundwave’s servo, and jumped up on his lap, almost banging her head on his faceplate, and sat there. She was big for a symbiote and barely fit on his legs, but she kept her delicate balance well. Soundwave was a little surprised at Ravage’s sudden physicality, but he didn’t feel like complaining about the warmth of her motors seeping into his armour. He absentmindedly began to run his servo up and down the steel curve of her back, tracing the sensitive neural circuits there, a spot she rarely allowed him to touch. He found himself slightly entranced by how smooth and powerful her spine felt, and he savoured the feel of it beneath his servo.

The jaguar-like symbiote leaned forward slightly and tucked her head underneath his jaw, just like how Soundwave’s finger edged its way under her chin to scratch it earlier. She delicately nosed the cables and fuel lines of his neck, burrowing her face in the warmth there. The only sounds between them were Ravage’s quick breaths, the soft shifting of Soundwave’s servo on her back, and the quiet purr of motors and processors. Soundwave allowed his optics to offline and focused on his tactile receptors, the sensations delivered to a part of his central processor that felt sorely neglected. The telepath felt himself soaking up the contact like water in dry soil, and he couldn’t find it within himself to ask Ravage to get off his lap and stop feeding his weakness.

Very gently, Ravage began to knead the top of his thigh with her forepaws, extending and retracting the claws as she did so. Soundwave shifted a bit uncomfortably at the feeling of sharp titanium against his armour, but didn’t still Ravage’s paws. This was too rare and precious a moment, and he wanted no aspect of it to stop.

Soundwave slowly exhaled against Ravage’s shoulder, making a little synthesized hum in pleasure as Ravage nuzzled against his neck. Somewhere in the back of his processor, a hypervigilant anxiety cried out against this, shaming him for accepting and obliging a fatal flaw in his Decepticon programming. But, being able to use his servos affectionately instead of for tearing mechs apart was an almost novel feeling, and he basked in the peacefulness he felt. Perhaps this was not just one, but two weaknesses: the first, his touch starvation, and the second, his inability to find the discipline to keep it under control.

  He’d deal with the self-loathing and unending loneliness later. For this moment, though, he could stop walking alone for a bit and sit with Ravage, at peace, his acute sense of touch flooding his processor and seeping into every gap between his plating, warming him from the outside in, his armour feeling as if it was glowing.

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't write this with Soundwave/Ravage in mind, but if that floats your boat, you're free to interpret it that way.
> 
> EDIT 11/22/18: minor grammar corrections


End file.
